


The Kotil Affair

by PerilousCowboy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Istanbul, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4647180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerilousCowboy/pseuds/PerilousCowboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newly Codenamed UNCLE heads to Istanbul on their first official mission after the body of a British Intelligence agent is fished out of the Bosphorus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mission Objective

“Yes, but why UNCLE?” It was Gaby who asked the question they were all thinking and it didn’t come until they were already on the plane to Istanbul. A private plane, fancy and just right for Solo’s taste. He sat with his legs crossed, eyes on Waverly and the others, on the team, and it still felt odd for him to think of them as such. This was supposed to be one mission. But now here they were, on their way to Istanbul, with a new codename. 

At least Peril had the decency to look as out of sorts as Solo felt. The tall Russian sat with his arms over his chest, set to his jaw and a thin line along his lips. He wasn’t pleased and Solo wondered if it was because of this new arrangement or because even special agents needed some down time once and again. They were all sporting their bruises as badges still. 

Waverly seemed to be the only one unperturbed by the whole thing, mastermind and all. 

“An acronym, actually,” Waverly said, smiling as he sat back. Solo liked the man. Hadn’t seen it coming that he was an operative, though looking back now he thought he should have. And the man was just smug enough to win over Solo’s respect. “United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.” Waverly gave a motion of his hand. “UNCLE.” 

“Charming,” Gaby told him and it was only because it was Gaby that the words weren’t taken as sarcasm. 

“I thought so,” Waverly agreed. 

Solo sighed, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “It sounds to me as though you’d been planning this.” 

“Oh for a while,” Waverly assured him and the comment made Solo frown a little. The man seemed very forthcoming. He couldn’t tell if it was a breath of fresh air in comparison to CIA handlers or if it unnerved him. A little of both, maybe. “The idea of Allied and Axis didn’t stop at the war.” Solo glanced over at Illya, who kept his face stoically impassive. “You may not realize, Gents, but - eh, and Lady,” he said, tipping his head to Gaby, who just gave him a lift of the brow. “It took a second world war to change the idea of threats altogether. Arms race aside, it’s been made very clear that war isn’t waged country to country anymore. But organization to organization. And there are indications of a steadily growing one beneath all of our noses.” 

Gaby leaned forward at that. “Victoria’s organization,” she observed, more than questioned. 

“Quite possibly,” Waverly affirmed. “Though, she was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. And so we believe.” 

It was logical, to Solo. The amount of resources that could be pooled together. A continuation of the allied forces left over from the war, though how Waverly had ever convinced his superior was a form of charm beyond even Solo’s reach. Or perhaps it was because his superiors were concerned about the five years of leverage they still had over him and what became of their deal afterwards. A liability, perhaps? 

“So,” Solo began. “CIA, KGB, and British intelligence working together.” He paused, shaking his head. “UNCLE.” 

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Waverly, smiled over at him. “All three of you landed, quite literally, in my lap. And it didn’t take much to convince your superiors.”

“I bet all you had to do was say the words nuclear warhead,” Solo told him. 

Waverly simply smiled. “More or less.” 

Illya finally broke his silence, uncrossing his arms and resting his hands on his knees. “What is your mess in Istanbul?”

“Our mess now, Kuryakin,” Waverly said, but reached for a folder, laying it out on the table that separated them. Solo leaned forward to see the pictures and papers in the blue folder laid out. The first picture was of a woman, pale and beaten, laying dead on the side of a river. “Beverly Dawson,” Waverly said. “British Intelligence. Fished out of the Bosphorous two days ago.” 

“Unfortunate,” Solo gave his condolences. 

“Quite,” Waverly agreed. “She’d been undercover for three months.” He pulled another picture out of the file, placing it atop the first. A man in his late thirties, Dark skin, dark hair with a smile on his face. It could have been just another picture of anyone, but Solo started to memorize his face as best he could. “This was her target. Farouk Kotil. By all accounts of the Turkish public, he’s a philanthropist and a billionaire. Family money. Lavish parties, modernization of entire sectors of the city -- Prince Charming of Istanbul, really.” 

“Why investigate him?” Illya asked. 

Waverly sighed. “Charming on the outside, sociopath and global threat on the inside. He’s an idealist, a rather...violent one. And we had suspected him for a long time of holding a stake in nuclear warfare. Low and behold, his name appeared on a list of potential buyers associated with the plans Victoria Vinciguerra was preening to sell.”

“The plans are lost,” Gaby said. “Do you think he’ll look elsewhere?” 

“Yes,” Waverly said without hesitation. “But that’s not what concerns us now. Turkey is at the tail end of a coup d’etat. It hasn’t happened yet, but everyone can see military rule is about to pull out and let Turkey run its own government again. Elections and all. Kotil has a horse in the race, one he’s determined to, and most likely, will get elected. Which means that all of Turkey will be in Kotil’s pocket.”

Illya sighed. “Why not kill him?”

Gaby sucked in a breath. She was an agent, yes, but he was certain she’d never killed a man before. Didn’t have the training that he and Illya had. If this team was a permanent thing, that would most likely come later. 

“Easy, Peril,” Solo spoke up before anyone could call her on it. “I’m betting the other shoe is about to drop.” 

“How wise you are,” Waverly smiled at all of them. “The thing with men like Kotil who like to have entire countries and politicians in their pockets, is that they’re often in a pocket themselves.” 

“Whose?” Gaby asked. 

Waverly could only let out a breath. “Now that is the question, isn’t it? One we’re going to find out.” He looked at all three of them in turn. “Gaby. Kotil is lacking a woman at his side for the moment. You’ll get close to him, play the part, learn what you can from him and see if he’ll bring you in.” 

Surprisingly, or not, it was Illya who protested the plan. “This man killed his last girlfriend,” he reached forward, nimbly pushing aside the picture of Kotil to uncover the one of Beverly’s body, fresh out of the Bosphorous. 

“Yes, I know,” Waverly nodded his head. “That’s why you’ll be her backup, Kuryakin. Dawson was working alone. Gaby will not be.” Illya made a face, but seemed to accept that as a responsibility. 

“Solo,” Waverly caught his attention. “You’ll look into the safe house Dawson was staying. See if you can’t find out what got her killed.” 

“Fairly certain being British Intelligence got her killed,” Solo answered, snark ever in his tone, but he nodded afterwards. That would be easy enough, he supposed. He leaned back in his chair, thinking about the mission and this new team. It was a solid plan, though it would put poor Gaby into the thick of things again. He’d grown rather fond of her, thought she had a strong will that could get just about anything done. And Illya -- there was no denying he was driven. Not the most tactful of spies, but Solo thought Waverly was well aware of that. Solo had the tact, Illya had the muscle. Formidable each on their own, but as a team? Waverly might just be on to something with this UNCLE business. 

“I need a name, Lady and Gents,” Waverly wrapped up. “Find out who Kotil works for. Shut down his operation. And just as important -- don’t get killed.”


	2. Cover Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newly Codenamed UNCLE heads to Istanbul on their first official mission after the body of a British Intelligence agent is fished out of the Bosphorus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After feedback from the first chapter, tried to slow it down a little and do some more prose from the characters’ perspectives and not rely so heavily on the dialogue. Hope you enjoy!

Solo had been with a girl from Istanbul once. Though not actually in the country themselves. In Greece, in fact. She’d been fleeing, he’d been helping and she’d wanted to thank him. It hadn’t been necessary, he’d assured her. It didn’t matter. The woman had known what she’d wanted. 

Now, in a hotel room in Istanbul, he thought of her. It was the scent, he thought. This whole country had a scent to it. Not bad. Familiar. The hotel was no different, only he wasn’t sharing it with a beautiful raven haired woman. Currently, he was standing in the room with a small German mechanic and a Russian super agent. Absent, was probably the most charming Brit he’d ever met in his life and that was saying something. Waverly had gone off to claim a room of his own. 

It was a suite, of course. Several beds and a lounge area, which was currently being set up with equipment they thought they would need. They all had their separate affairs, but all centered around the same person. Kotil. The kind of dangerous criminal Solo had rubbed elbows with on numerous occasions before he’d been recruited into the CIA. 

“I’ve never been to a ball,” Gaby said, drawing Solo’s attention. She’d been walking around the room, peeking out the window and looking at the fancy furniture. This was a long way from her chop shop in East Berlin. Fancy parties, expensive hotel rooms and clothes she’d probably only dreamed of wearing when she was a little girl. She hadn’t been paid much on a mechanic’s salary.

She was adjusting like a dream, he had to give her that. 

“Just think of it as a fancy soiree with lavish spreads, structured dancing and everyone dressed in their finest, most expensive clothing,” Solo told her casually. 

Gaby turned to give him a look as she leaned against the back of Illya’s chair. “I’m a fine dancer,” she said and he saw Illya smirk. He’d missed something. It was obvious. 

“I know,” he told her, not liking to be a man ever caught off guard. “A ballerina, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“I would have never guessed this,” Illya says sarcastically and now Solo knows for sure that he missed something. The look Gaby gives him could pierce metal. Good thing Kuryakin was made of something stronger. 

Focusing instead on the man who wasn’t insulting her dancing, she walked from behind Illya’s chair, bumping the table where he was working on making sure the wires of the tracking device were in order. He made a face which was promptly ignored. “How did you know?” she asked. 

“I read your file,” he told her. 

“He does this to everyone,” Illya commented dryly. 

Solo smirked. “I like to know who I’m working with.” 

“Rome wasn’t good enough?” Gaby asked and Solo wondered if that was defensiveness he heard in her tone, saw in her eyes. Did she think she hadn’t proven herself to him? She had. She was capable. Untrained, but capable. 

“That was before I knew you were an agent, Gaby,” he said. “It makes you look over someone’s file with a...different set of glasses.” 

Gaby scoffed, turning to look down at Illya. “Did you read it too?” 

“Of course,” Illya said, no qualms at admitting it. 

“And?” 

Illya had the decency to look up at her a little wide eyed. For a KGB agent, Solo found his sense with women was a little...stunted. He thought about his answer for a moment before smiling up at her. “I like that you are professional driver,” he told her. 

“Better than you are,” she shot back at him. Solo had to agree. That’d proven that the first night. 

“I prefer boats,” Illya waved his hand, going back to the wiring work. 

Solo merely took in a breath, noting that it probably wasn’t wise in the moment to remind the man that the last time they were on a boat that was driven by him, it had blown up and Illya had almost drowned. Had drowned, in fact. And despite everything, even the fact that Peril had been ready to point a gun at his back just a day before, he was glad he’d gone back for the man. He’d never admit it and he’d never expect a thank you, either. 

“Gaby,” Solo drew her attention. “You may know how to pirouette, but do you know how to waltz?” 

“Would you like me to teach you?” The sassy sway to her shoulders had Solo smirking. She started to head over, her arms held in the proper position for a waltz, with an invisible partner. 

Solo bowed his head affectionately. “Maybe you’d like to show me on our super agent?” 

“He doesn’t dance,” she stated matter-of-factly. 

“One day, you’ll have to tell me the story behind this...tension in the room,” Solo waved his hand between the two of them, giving Illya a look. He knew the man had a soft spot for Gaby. Had seen that transformation happen almost overnight. He also could recall the Russian’s hurt accent when he’d proclaimed that it just wasn’t the same, Gaby betraying Solo versus Gaby betraying Illya. He hadn’t argued. He knew it hadn’t been. It wasn’t. Solo wasn’t the one Gaby had eyes for and the tall Russian wasn’t exactly hard to read when he was lying. 

Where that was his shortcoming, as a spy, he made up for it in other accounts. 

“There’s no story,” Gaby said, walking back to go behind Illya, towards the beds, perhaps to her case. “He just doesn’t like to dance.”

“Two left feet, perhaps,” Solo called and when she was out of earshot, he averted his eyes to Illya. “Blowing it already, Peril?” 

“There is nothing to blow,” Illya said dismissively and at the incredibly arched eyebrow Solo rose, waiting for those words to sink in on the Russian, he clucked his tongue and waved off Solo in disgust. 

The man merely chuckled. “We need to buy you a gown, of course,” Solo’s voice rose so Gaby could hear them again. 

“Maybe you’ll even let me pick it out this time,” Gaby called back. 

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Solo tried. 

The door to the room opened and both Illya and Solo turned to glance at the newcomer. Waverly. Working for a Brit. Solo didn’t know what to truly think about it all. This arrangement seemed tenuous. Built on necessity instead of any sort of trust. Hell, he’d had the Russians ready to kill him over a computer disk only a day before. What would happen the next time they came across similar information? Would he always have to look over his shoulder at his partners? Or worse, would he always have to tell his own organization no?

“Settling in, I see,” Waverly greeted, nodding his head pleasantly at each of them. Gaby reemerged, having set up her bags, unpacked a few things near one of the beds. 

Solo turned to regard the man, still a happy smile on his face. “It seems we’re going to get rather cozy in here.” While he’s slept in worse places, slept in bunks with soldiers to his left and right, he’d thought he was long since passed that. At least when he was undercover and used safe houses, there were rooms that separated them all. There was always a place he could retreat to that could be considered private. This, with Gaby and Illya, was anything but. He didn’t know how the two had put up with each other in Rome the way they did. 

“You’re a team now, Solo,” Waverly answered with that understanding smile on his face. 

Gaby stepped forward some more, coming to stand next to where Illya was still seated. “We’re going shopping for a gown for Kotil’s ball,” she told him. “I’m thinking something...modest.” Her head turned to look at the scrapes along her arm. There were mirrored bruises and markings on her leg from the car flipping, thanks to Solo.

“Tell me, Gaby,” Solo interrupted. “Are you anything of an equestrian?” 

“Excuse me?” she asked, frowning at him. 

Waverly smiled and Illya looked up from his work. They both already knew what he was getting to. “Horse racing, or, showing. Farouk Kotil has owned three of the last five champions in the region. He’ll of course be drawn in by your beauty, interested in the bruises. Or...vice versa. You’ll tell him you were taking a newly purchased pure breed for a test ride and...it didn’t work out. Russian horse, of course. Known for their mal-temper.” 

Illya sat up a little straighter. “Known for their strength,” he countered. “A Russian horse would win. You should make it American bred.” 

Gaby waved her hand, cutting both of them off. “One snag, fellas. I don’t know the first thing about horses. Couldn’t I have raced a car, instead?” 

“Kotil enjoys horses,” Illya told her, his voice gentling. “You give him something in common and...you will have much to talk about.” 

“Ah, so you do know how to charm people, Peril,” Solo quipped. 

Waverly spoke up. “It’s a solid plan. Gaby, we’ll get you up to date on equestrian knowledge. The ball is in three days, we’ll have you ready on time.” The face she made had Solo smiling a little. She’d been able to be herself in her first mission as British Intelligence. Now, undercover, she’d have to acquire a lot of knowledge on an assortment of topics. She could handle it. She was a smart woman. “As for you two, Solo and Kuryakin -- you’ll head to Dawson’s safe house tonight. I needn’t remind you to be careful, we’re not sure if the house has been made.” 

“Anything in particular we’re looking for, sir?” Solo asked. 

“Answers, Solo,” Waverly said simply. “Other than that, more answers.” 

It didn’t escape Solo that he didn’t argue the fact that he’d be working once again side by side with Kuryakin. Maybe the thought had crossed his mind to say he worked better alone, but it never became more than a thought. They were a team. Waverly had said so himself. 

“Oh, and, Kuryakin,” Waverly said. The Russian lifted his head up to look at him. “I do believe you have a guest downstairs. Hiding his face in a newspaper in the lobby. Oleg always was a snappy dresser, wasn’t he?” 

Illya’s face steeled. Solo took a breath and wondered just what Waverly had told the KGB to get them to allow Illya to come here. And if it was a ruse. Waverly was aware of it and there was the possibility that Illya would go downstairs and tell his superior of it. 

Putting down the tools in his hands, he stood, that grim look still there. “I will handle it.” 

Clearing his throat, Waverly looked up at the man. “The business with the disc...-”

“It is not problem,” Illya cut him off, heading for the door. 

“Kuryakin,” Waverly stopped him and Solo stood a little straighter with how cold the look on Illya’s face was when he turned around. He’d been the recipient of that look on several occasions. The first, when he’d pushed Illya about his background. A poor cafe table had met it’s end that day. The second, in a hotel room in Rome when Illya had been reaching into his jacket. It was a steeled look. One that prepared the man, shut him down to emotional assault around him. Or tried to keep it trapped inside if it was already brewing. Perhaps he expected Waverly to threaten him. To order him to disobey the KGB, whatever it was they wanted. Waverly did neither. “I know you’ll handle it.” 

Illya’s face softened, only in the slightest and only because Solo was trained to look for it. The Russian merely nodded and closed the door behind him as he left. 

“Who’s Oleg?” Gaby asked immediately. 

“A leash holder,” Solo told her, not quite hiding the bitter taste in his words. He turned to Waverly. “Is this going to be a problem?” 

Waverly sighed. “Let’s hope not.” 


	3. Meeting with Oleg

Illya had spoken to Oleg already, of course. He didn’t just take someone’s word that he was working under British Intelligence without checking in. Tensions were high in the world right now and whether he found himself being drawn in by an American and British Intelligence, it didn’t change the fact that they were still at war. Arms Race. Americans versus Soviets, whatever the case may be. They’d stepped out of one World War and into a war amongst themselves. Illya didn’t think he could remember a time when he wasn’t on some side of some war. 

Now, KGB, it seemed more important than ever to remember his roots. To remember why he did the things he did and what drove him at the end of the day. Reputation was important. Love of his home country. And somewhere, very far down the line, was his belief in how the world should be. 

Maybe that’s why he’d let Solo set fire to the computer disc. 

It was easy to spot Oleg. He hadn’t really made himself incognito and Illya could recognize that it was a purposeful thing. He’d wanted to be spotted. Maybe so Waverly would send him down. There was always a game to be played with Oleg. Always. 

When he spoke, he spoke in his native tongue. Even if it drew attention, he thought it was safer at this point instead of slipping into English. “Anything interesting, comrade?”

Oleg didn’t answer at first. Instead, he seemed to finish his article and Illya was left standing there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as he waited patiently. Finally, Oleg folded the newspaper down, laying it across his lap, looking up at the tall Russian in front of him. “Sit.” 

Illya glanced at the chair across from him before doing so. Oleg was not a man to question. He was a different kind of leader, one that used threats as motivation. He knew where to poke and knew where to prod and at the end of the day, he got what he wanted. And he did so for his country. For Russia. For the Soviet Union. 

“This arrangement of yours has us worried,” the man said. Illya sat up a little straighter. He knew how it looked. In bed with the enemy. Didn’t matter if they all shared a common purpose. This…unit, codenamed UNCLE, whatever they were – designated to handle global threats. Heavily backed by British Intelligence, which meant they weren’t exactly neutral. “As does this disc you claim didn’t exist.” 

“There was no-…”

“Horse shit.” Illya closes his mouth, looking across at the other man with a steeled look on his face. “We swept that room and there was no sign of it. I’m going to ask you this once. Does the American have the plans?” 

Illya lowered his chin, firm in his answer. “No.” 

“How do you know?” The question was a simple one, but Illya couldn’t give the honest answer. Because they’d burned the disc. They watched it go up in flames as they shared a drink and the implications of such a small action – it kept the playing field even. It didn’t tip the hand of nuclear warfare in one direction or the other. If either Solo or Illya had take that disc back to their superiors…

“I just know.” It was the only answer he gave. His superior would just have to trust him. 

Oleg, for his part, didn’t say anything for a long while. He studied Illya’s face. Under the scrutiny, Illya didn’t flinch, but he couldn’t figure out what the other man was thinking, either. Couldn’t figure out the conclusions he was coming to. Finally, he leaned back, that knowing smirk on his face and Illya tried to prepare himself for what came next. It was always the same. Always that one spot Oleg knew where to prod to get him to do his job. 

“If we ever find out that you had those plans and didn’t bring them to us…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Your father was a year into Gulag before he died. Don’t think that just because it’s shut down that Siberia is no longer an option. I’d be very interested in seeing, Kuryakin, whether or not you’d outlast him.”

Tapping. His finger tapped along his arm where they were crossed over his chest. The blood rushed in his ears and drowned out the sounds of the hotel lobby, of people coming in and out, laughing and arguing, being people. He could only stare at Oleg’s face. His father. In Gulag. The steady sound of marching. Of men starving in chains. 

“Kuryakin,” Oleg said, bringing Illya’s cold eyes up to him. “The next time any intelligence on MI6 or the CIA falls into your lap, you bring it to us. Or I will make good on my curiosity. Is this understood?” 

Illya was quiet for a long moment, but only answered with a curt nod, which Oleg returned. He stood afterwards, buttoning his suit jacket and tipping his hat to the man, turning as he made to leave. Illya was still glued to his chair. 

“Oh, and one more thing,” Illya’s jaw was still set, teeth slammed together as he looked up at him. “This arrangement of yours is temporary. You may be UNCLE now, but at the end of the day, you will always be KGB. Don’t forget that.”

He left at that and Illya’s grip was so tight around his own arm, he hand to stand to keep from bruising himself. His eyes roamed the lobby and there was the urge, the very strong urge, to rip this place to shreds. To overturn the chair he’d just risen from and make everything beautiful in this setting into something shattered and torn. 

He didn’t. He took a breath, heading back upstairs. 

—

It was a similar scene, the three of them in a boutique. Gaby had disappeared into a fitting room, trying on a ballgown she’d found particularly interesting. Illya, for once, sat in one of the waiting chairs, a pensive look on his face. Solo didn’t rightly know how his meeting with Oleg had gone, but he could chance a few guesses based off how the man was acting now. When things didn’t go how he liked, Illya had a tendency to get quiet. Nods and one word answers. 

Solo didn’t like it, but he couldn’t say for certain where Illya’s loyalties lay. If he had to say anything, he would say the KGB, but that was an unpleasant thing to admit. He didn’t know if a spontaneous bonfire was enough to make him question those loyalties or forge new ones. He’d like to think that if anything, he had forged a new loyalty to the small German mechanic currently trying on the gown. 

The quiet, though, was unnerving. Solo settled in at a dress rack and thought that he should ask. But the man took a certain amount of extra lengths to get that sort of truth out of. He looked through the assortment of dresses, reaching out for the most sheer, revealing one he could find. 

“I’m thinking this will be the one,” he said. 

It drew Illya’s attention, at least and when the man caught sight of the dress, he frowned. “No, she will not wear this,” he said, doing as Solo hoped and rising to his feet. He came over to stand near the man, starting to sift through the dresses on their hangers as well. 

“I don’t know, she has to catch Kotil’s eyes somehow,” Solo insisted. 

Illya clucked his tongue. “She will do this on her own. She does not need your…lingerie dress to do it.” There it was. That jealous, protective side of the man he had trouble hiding. 

But Solo didn’t rib him on it. He’d goaded him out of his mind, whatever dark thoughts had been bothering him since he’d returned from his meeting with Oleg, and that had been the purpose of the words. So his next were carefully calculated. “I take it your conversation with Oleg didn’t go well.” 

The Russian turned to look at him, studying his face and Solo kept his own eyes on the man, trying to read whatever hints he’d let through in that steely gaze. There wasn’t much. Just the same as Illya always let through. A need to prove himself. A need to be good at what he did. That look that conveyed the weight of the iron curtain on his shoulders. 

“Do not worry about Oleg,” he said. 

“You’re right, he doesn’t concern me, I suppose,” Solo gave, nonchalantly. “The thing is…I rather like not having to worry about you pulling a gun behind my back.” 

Illya shook his head. “If I shoot you, you will see it coming, Cowboy.” 

“Reassuring,” Solo sassed and didn’t know what to make of the smirk on Illya’s face. 

They didn’t have time to figure it out any further as Gaby emerged from the dressing room. Long, flowing ballgown with a slit up one leg. Solo lifted a brow. The woman continued to surprise him. For a girl who’d had grease and oil under her nails the first time he’d met her, she sure did clean up nicely. 

“Do you really think this will catch his eye?” Gaby asked, coming over to them. She stretched her shoulders, twisting and turning in the dress as though she were not used to it. 

Solo gave her a smile. “Ms. Teller, I can assure you, if you in this gown doesn’t catch his eye, then we should have sent in Peril.” He expected Illya to shoot him a glare, but the man’s head was tipped as he regarded her, quiet for once. Infatuated. Solo smirked. “One small change, though. You’re no longer engaged. So, the ring?” 

That gained Illya’s attention and he lifted his head to give Solo a wide eyed look, then down at Gaby. She looked at the ring on her finger and then nodded. “You’re right,” she said. Illya’s mouth formed a thin line as she removed the ring and Solo held his hand out. Only she didn’t place it in his palm. Instead, she reached for a chain dangling from the available jewelry. Putting the ring around the chain, she hang it from her neck, it matched perfectly with the gown, a sparkling centerpiece. “It’s my mother’s ring,” she told Solo and turned to look up at Illya. “I keep it with me.” Then she headed to go look at herself in the mirrors. 

“I suppose that makes you happy,” Solo said, giving his companion a side glance. 

Illya held his chin up a little. “It is only a ring.” 

The smug smirk gave him away.


	4. Safe House

“It occurs to me, Peril, that we haven’t really discussed how you feel about this arrangement of ours.” 

The Russian lifted his head, to look across the darkened room at him. It turned out, as it was, that the safehouse was a top floor apartment in a brightly blue painted brick building overlooking the river. There were several easy exit strategies and the location was desirable. A well thought out purchase, if Solo had to admit. He’d stayed in worse places and it reminded him of the apartment the CIA had used in West Germany after he’d extracted Gaby. Not chic, as she could say. But safe. Which was the purpose. 

They’d had no trouble getting inside. The street had been mostly clear, a group of staggering young men had been heading up the street, celebrating something by the looks of it. The only car parked on the street looked as though it had been there for a while. He wondered if it wasn’t Dawson’s, but thought British Intelligence would have reclaimed it if it had been. Theirs was parked a couple of streets over. 

“This is a good time for discussion?” Illya says back to him and Solo smirks a bit. He’d thought so. And even if Illya did think it wasn’t a good time to talk, he could recognize a distraction technique when he saw one. They’d not spoken openly about this new assignment. About still having to work together. They’d said their mutual goodbye and even if Solo had been thinking that yes, he had respect for the other man, he’d still been ready to say goodbye. Ready to return to business as usual. 

It hadn’t worked out that way and he was still deciding how he felt about that. 

“Why not?” Solo asked, amused, but his eyes were scanning the safehouse. Waverly had warned them that it could be under surveillance. Could be being watched and they still didn’t know who was going to be on the opposite end of those eyes. Kotil or someone entirely different. “It seems as good a time as any. No time constraint, we could even stop for a glass of-..” 

“It is only a mission,” Illya cut him off and Solo tipped his head back, eyes returning to the man. It was said with too much force. Brushing off any emotional attachment as he’d seen him do before. When he’d called him on the possibility of going soft. For Gaby. The Red Peril didn’t do emotions. At least in words. But it had become fairly obvious to Solo that of all of them, Illya was the most emotionally expressive of the bunch.

“Of course,” Solo said, smirking a little bit, but he continued to scan the safehouse, stopping at a table to look through the papers scattered across it. Nothing of interest that he could find. Magazines, a newspaper from last week. Staying up on the times, Dawson was. 

It surprised him when Illya continued talking. “What about you, cowboy? What happen to you work better alone?” 

Solo smirked. While he could share his own feelings a bit easier than his new Russian friend, he was in no hurry to do so. Especially after Illya’s meeting with the KGB earlier today. There wasn’t a guarantee that one day, Illya wouldn’t choose his agency over Solo, Gaby, Waverly. Just because he’d proven otherwise once, didn’t mean that it would always be so. He didn’t fully known the man’s reasoning behind it still. 

Instead of answering, he pointed at a painting on the wall. “Does that painting look out of place to you?” 

Illya frowned, turning to look at it, but then tipped his head to the side curiously. He stepped forward, leaning to look behind the painting before he gripped it on both sides and pulled it away from the wall. Sure enough, behind the painting was a small wall safe. Solo came up to stand next to him, a smug smile on his face. Illya just stared at it. They’d been in this situation before and Solo turning to look at Illya, his head tipped back with a knowing look on his face. 

It only took a side glance from Illya before the man gave a “Pssh,” and stepped aside, showing that, once again, he would let Solo be his guest and try to crack the safe. It was a lot smaller than the last one. Not even a real challenge for Solo. It didn’t even require the tools that he’d brought with him, either. This was safe cracking 101 and he was going to have to speak to Waverly to make sure that if they were going to use a safehouse like this in the future, they’d need something a little more sophisticated. 

Leaning his ear against the safe, he began turning the dial, listening for the telltale clicks when it had found the right spot. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Illya looking around. It was nearly a distraction and he almost told him to go check a different room while they waited, but he forced that away. It was true, that he used to consider working alone to be the better way to go about things. But the scope of what they’d accomplished in Rome. Of what they’d done with the Vinciguerra affair. Maybe there was something to this partnership thing. 

The thought was almost serendipitously interrupted by Illya suddenly jerking towards him, colliding with him with such force that Solo was caught completely off guard and the two of them fell backwards with a heavy thud to the floor. The breath escaped Solo’s lungs and he didn’t have time to question why the hell the Red Peril was tackling him when he realized there was a new ding in the safe above them. The sound of falling, shattering glass pieces coming from the window on the opposite side of the room. 

Someone had taken a shot at them. 

“A sniper,” Illya explained. Solo frowned. Illya had spotted and was able to dodge a sniper? He remembered how quickly he’d dodged an almost point blank shot that first time they’d come across each other in Berlin. It hadn’t been so then, but now he was reminded to be thankful the man was on his side for the time being. 

“A warning, next time, Peril. If you would,” Solo complained, but mostly to get his wits about him again. He tried to spy the window, but another shot was ricocheted off the desk they were hiding behind. 

“Warning would have been the bullet,” Illya barked back at him. 

Solo made a face, but his eyes went back to that safe. They hadn’t started shooting until they’d been ready to crack it. Which meant whatever was inside… 

“You’re good at distractions,” Solo told Illya, who gave him a frown. “Do you think you could distract our sniper friend while I retrieve whatever it is they’re trying to protect in there?” 

A low growl escaped Illya’s throat but Solo recognized it for what it was. Growing pains between partners. A plan that they didn’t both agree on, but could at least both agree was worthwhile. Illya lifted his head slightly, only to have another bullet graze too close to his head. Solo felt a twinge of concern at that, but Illya nodded, turning as he stayed crouch, back to Solo, ready to make a dash for the other room. “Next time, you will be distraction,” he grumbled and then lifted his head slightly, drawing another bullet before he took off running. Another bullet at his heels, but he was already disappeared behind a wall. 

“We all have our gifts, Peril!” Solo called. “Don’t play nice, now!” 

The Russian was out of sight and Solo sat perfect still, listening and waiting for his opportunity. He had no idea what the man intended to do, could almost hear his voice telling him to watch him work, but pushed that aside, knowing the last time the man had said it to him, he’d almost drowned. 

A commotion outside and Solo chanced lifting his head slightly. It was enough to see a large, shadowed figure leap across the roof of their building and onto the next. Immediately, a scuffle broke out. Solo took the opportunity he’d asked for. “Don’t let him shoot me,” he said under his breath, sidling up to the safe again and pressing his ear against it. This time, he listened carefully, but his eyes kept roaming to the roof top across the way, watching for any signs that the KGB agent was having a difficult time. 

The scuffle still waged and Solo heard the final click of the safe before he stood back and pulled it open. His hear almost sank when on first look, it was empty. But his head tipped to the side and a small, “Hmm,” escaped his throat as he reached in, pulling out only a small business card. A bird with its wings expanded, a crest on top of its head. No name or word beneath it. He flipped it over and a new level of curiosity piqued in him. The name “Alexander Waverly” was scrawled in penmanship across the back. “Now this is curious,” he said to himself before stuffing it into his pocket and closing the safe. 

They’d spent enough time here. He went to the window, looking out of it, just in time to see a figure fall off the edge. His eyes widened, leaning to try and see if it was a tall blonde Russian or… The fear was unfounded, Illya came to the edge of the roof on the other building as soon as it was over. He was breathing heavy, but his eyes were on the body of a man he’d just thrown over the edge. One that wouldn’t be getting back up. 

Solo tapped on the window and drew Illya’s attention. He motioned with his hand that it was time to go. 

They met outside, walking pass the narrow alley between the buildings were a body still lay. There were sounds of sirens in the air and they both deemed it not wise to stick around and see if they could find anything on the mystery man. Best get to the car. 

“What was in the safe?” Illya asked. 

“Well, we didn’t get Waverly any answers,” Solo said, pulling the card out and showing it to Illya. Illya’s face steeled, turning it over and frowning at the name. “But we did find some more questions.” 

“I do not know this symbol,” Illya said, shaking his head. 

“Nor do I. Perhaps our contacts-…” 

Whatever plan they’d been coming up with never escaped Solo’s mouth. From ahead of them, a loud explosion nearly knocked them off their feet. Both staggered backwards, hands thrown up to dampen the immediate glow of a fire burning. Solo’s eyes were wide, as were Illya’s as they saw what had just burst into flames. 

“They blew…our car,” Solo proclaimed. 


	5. Discussing Business

“What do you mean they blew up your car?” 

Solo sat on the couch, legs crossed at the ankles as he leaned back and tried to rack his brain. There was more going on in this investigation than what he could wrap his head around. He didn’t know who had taken a shot at them. It didn’t make sense for it to be any of their single organizations. Not CIA, not KGB. It had to be whoever had killed Agent Dawson and as far as Solo was concerned, there had to be some connection with whoever Kotil was working for. It made sense, fit into the grand scheme of things, so to say. 

“Just what it sounds like,” he said to Gaby, who stood in the doorway separating the suites of their large, shared hotel room. Illya was on the phone, recently vacated by Solo who’d had no help identifying the symbol they’d found on the card. It wasn’t known by the CIA. And as much as he was overhearing from Illya’s quietly spoken Russian conversation, it wasn’t known by the KGB either. 

“So a shooter and a bomb,” Gaby stated the facts again. 

“Yes, quite the affair,” Solo gave and sipped his tonic water afterwards. 

In the other room, Illya thanked whoever he’d been speaking to and hung up the phone, heading to stand next to Gaby. He gave a shake of his head. “It is not a known symbol in KGB,” he announced. 

Before Solo could posture a guess, the door opened and Waverly walked in. Solo leaned forward, setting his glass on the table before he stood and turned around to face the man. 

“Gentleman,” he greeted the pair of them. “I’ve just gotten done trying to reclaim the itty bitty pieces of our Corvair off the street. Thank you for that, by the way,” Waverly gave Solo a look, as though he were to blame for the explosion in their car. 

Solo simply gave a nod of his head, as though he accepted and took pride in the outcome. Waverly truly didn’t seem angry at all, but rather perplexed that a simple surveillance had gone so categorically wrong. 

“Did you find the sniper?” Illya asked. 

"Surprisingly, no, Kuryakin,” Waverly said and now it was Illya’s turn to look perplexed. Waverly paused for a moment and Solo thought that sometimes he did it for dramatic effect. He was a player, Solo could recognize one these days. “There was no body, apparently.” 

The Russian shook his head, frowning a little. “Impossible. I throw him off of three story building. He would not get up after this.”

Solo sighed. “They had someone there to clean up.” It made the most sense. Illya was right, no one could have gotten up after a fall like that. It had been a swan dive, head first and Illya had done it on purpose. There would be no getting back up, even if they had survived the fall. Someone would have had to come for the body and before the local authorities arrived. 

“Likely,” Waverly affirmed. “Which, if true, means this is a rather...organized unseen player. Or players.” His eyes downcast to the card still in Solo’s hand. A thoughtful look on his face. “And then there’s the matter of this.” He holds out his hand. 

There was only a small hesitation on Solo’s part, tapping the card between his fingers before he handed it over to Waverly. He hadn’t been sure whether it was wise to show the man or not. There was no reason not to trust him, save for the same reasons Solo didn’t trust Sanders or anyone in the CIA. Once a man had power over another, specifically, someone had power over Solo, that trust couldn’t be blind. Blind trust made men do stupid things. Immoral things. The World War had shown them that. 

“What do you make of it then?” Gaby spoke up, looking to the man. She had the most knowledge of him, the most contact with him. He’d been working with her, leaving her as bait in that small chop shop in East Berlin. She was intelligent enough to be a natural at it. Think of what she could do with the right training. Solo had to admire it. 

Waverly took a breath, but shook his head. “To be quite frank, unless the CIA or KGB had any intelligence on it,” he paused, but at the small shakes of both Illya and Solo’s head, he continued. “I haven’t a bloody clue.” 

“Could it have been a message?” Solo asked, hands in his pockets as he stood casually. 

“Possibly,” Waverly ascertained. “Or a warning. Or any number of undecipherable explanations. Agent Dawson gave no report of any danger.” Waverly sighed, looking at all three of them. “I don’t entirely believe it’s necessary to say, but do try to use extra caution while we’re here.  Our current unpleasantness has become...even more unpleasant.” 

“What about the ball?” Gaby asked. “Do you think we’ve been made?” 

Waverly shook his head. “There’s no telling. So for right now, full steam ahead.” He turned to Illya. “Kuryakin, you’ll be undercover as a server. I want you to keep ears on Kotil, pay attention to he talks to and about what. That’s your specialty, isn’t it? You do have trackers with you?” 

“Yes, of course,” Illya said, sounding a little defensive at the comment. Solo smirked, but afterwards, he thought that perhaps he should check his shoes again. Not to say that having a tracker somewhere on him had turned out as a bad thing. In fact, it had saved his life and his eyes went to Illya afterwards. The man had done so multiple times. 

“Very good,” Waverly nodded, turning to Solo. “And you,” he reached into his breast pocket, pulling out an invitation. “Have been invited, Mr. Moore.” Solo smirked, reaching out for the invitations. “Along with your date.” 

The words had Solo lifting a brow curiously. “Ms. Teller?” he asked, looking at Gaby. “I thought she was supposed to be seducing Kotil.” 

The scoff from Illya was the loudest noise he’d made the entire conversation. “She will not seduce anyone.” 

Gaby put her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes at Illya. “We’re no longer engaged, Illya,” she reminded him, recalling their undercover story in Rome. “I’m supposed to come across as an available woman. It may be necessary.” 

Illya ignored the comment entirely, point a finger at Solo. “And you will  _not_  be his date.” 

“Be reasonable,” Gaby shot back at him and it didn’t escape Solo that she wasn’t arguing that there was nothing for him to be upset about. That there was nothing for him to show that jealousy and protectiveness of, as she’d done last time when she’d been flirting with Alexander Vinciguerra. The sands had shifted, it would appear. He smirked slightly. 

“Uh, I don’t mean to interrupt,” Waverly spoke and Solo wondered if the man would ever show if he were annoyed or amused at something. He was a hard man to read, maybe because he seemed genuine in everything he said. Even in his humility when he bluffed, like the way he’d acted when he’d told them that Gaby was actually British intelligence. “But Ms. Teller will  _not_ be your date for the evening. Sorry to disappoint.” 

A frown marred Solo’s face. “Then who will it be?” 

Waverly smiled. “A dear old friend of mine, actually.” He didn’t elaborate and Solo stuck his hands in his pockets, frowning a bit. 

“Is there any place in the world where you don’t have friends?” 

A moment to think about it. “No, I don’t believe there is.” 


	6. The Ball Part One

For the first time since coming to Istanbul, Solo found himself without one of his new partners around. He was rather surprised at how…quiet it seemed. Not to say that either one of them were any sort of noisy or obnoxious, but he’d grown rather fond of the both of them. Rather fond of enjoying their company, which was something entirely new to him in the grand scheme of things. 

He hadn’t been lying to Illya when he said that he worked better alone. At least, at the time. There was a difference having to rely on someone to drive a car or be at a certain spot with a van and a grappling hook. Solo really did work better alone, he’d learned that in his early years at the CIA. People had a tendency to judge him for his past indiscretions. They had a tendency to see  _thief_  and on top of that  _war time thief_  and think that they already knew him. 

Thief. Womanizer. Insufferable. It was an air and persona he’d built for himself over the years. And while it was true, he was a good thief, being a war time thief had been equal measures opportunity as it was an exploration of humanity. There was a numbness that came with war. A certain block that one had to put in their minds to be able to handle the horrors they encountered. Maybe Solo had taken that first painting, that first work of art, because he didn’t know how to get rid of that emotional wall he put around himself. 

Or maybe he really was as despicable as people tended to label him as. He’d preyed upon a war torn nation to catapult himself into high society. Where had it gotten him? Servitude to the CIA. To the same country that had sent him off to war in the first place. 

It didn’t matter now, he supposed. This UNCLE business was still new. Still in its infancy and Solo wasn’t quite sure what he made of it. He knew, unfortunately, that he was enjoying it. That he was proud of what they’d accomplished in Rome and he’d actually found a sort of lost soul kindred spirit in a little British agent and a tall KGB super agent. 

Now, it was a matter of putting faith in Waverly. That he could be the tie that bound them together and got them to perform to a certain level of efficiency. It was why now, sitting in the back of a car driven by an undercover British Agent Milford, Solo didn’t question that they were about to bring in another operative. An old friend of Waverly’s by the sound of it. 

Illya and Gaby had already gone to go to the ball. Illya went early to play his part as a server. Solo hoped no one would spark his ire tonight. Gaby was on her way in her own car while Solo was stopping to pick up the friend of Waverly’s. 

It was a house on the outskirts of the city. A rather remarkable one, colonial in nature and so out of characteristic for the rest of the city that Solo wondered if this wouldn’t be one of the areas requisitioned for upgrading once the Turkish elections went through. Rigging an election of an entire country, Kotil’s pockets had to run deep. Or the pockets of whoever were pulling his puppet strings. Which was why they were here in the first place. Find the puppeteer. 

The car stopped and Solo glanced out the window, smiling at the woman he saw standing there waiting in the foyer. She was at least ten years Solo’s senior, closer to Waverly in age, but still beautiful. Tall, dark hair. She could have easily been from the area, but as he exited the car and went to greet her, her accent held a distinct British flare to it. 

“Mr. Solo, I presume?” she asked, sultry voice. 

He smiled at her, bowing slightly as he reaching to take her hand. “Tonight, it’s Mr. Moore,” he informed her. He pressed a kiss to her hand in greeting. “A pleasure. And you must be-…” 

She cut him off before he could continue. “Ava Rehnquist,” she told him, smiling as she watched him kiss her hand. “A dear friend of Waverly’s. I hear I’m to be your date tonight.” 

“Quite the ravishing one, by the looks of it,” he told her. It was true, she was dressed expensively, diamonds and gold hanging from her wrists and neck. It was only that she was a friend of Waverly’s that he fought back the temptation to pocket some of those pieces. 

“Flatterer,” she responded and he just gave her an award winning smile. “I’ve been informed of your mission, of course,” she said as she started for the car. Solo moved ahead, pulling the door open for her and he waited until she was seated to lean against the door to eye her. 

“Waverly said you would be,” he told her, putting the charm into his smile as best he could. It was what he excelled at, after all. “He also said you were very good at what you do.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond just yet, closing the door and rounding the car to climb in next to her. He nodded to the driver, who started heading to Kotil’s manor. 

Ava leaned back in her seat, watching him closely. “Please,” she said, coy in her glances at him. “Don’t pretend that you haven’t been fully briefed. If not by Waverly, then of course by the CIA, Mr. Solo.” 

“Moore,” he corrected again, but kept that smile on his face. “Alright, then. I _have_  been briefed on you. British Intelligence since you were twenty. Married twice, no children. Climbed in the ranks until you were injured in Morocco, a militant group, wasn’t it?” Ava merely smiled. Solo nodded and continued. “A desk job, after that. But…difficult to give up the life, so you requested a transfer. Back in the game now. A top MI6 agent. Though that cover has only been blown recently.” 

“Very good,” Ava seemed pleased with the answer. She leaned her head back slightly, straightening his jacket for him and Solo smirked slightly. He could recognize someone who shared his gift for gab. She was one of them. A smooth talker, a player. “You are quite handsome, aren’t you?” she said, as if on a whim. 

“Now who’s the flatterer?” he shot back at her. Ready to play the game. 

Ava smiled back at him. “Farouk Kotil is a particular man,” she told him and he nodded his head. He’d read the man’s file as well. Had spent hours pouring over days of surveillance on him, provided by both British Intelligence and whatever the CIA had on him. Although, he was almost ashamed to admit that the CIA hadn’t had much on the man. He’d been on their radar, but not anywhere near where he needed to be if his name was on a list of buyers for the Vinciguerra nuclear warhead. “I do hope your little agent is the ambitious sort.” 

Solo gave a fond look to the side before he nodded. “My dear,” he said, giving her a look. “You have no idea.” 

—

Gaby couldn’t rightfully say that she’d ever worn a dress like this before. There’d been the high end, fancy dresses she’d worn in Rome, the ones Waverly had allowed for her to bring with her. But none were this elegant. She hadn’t been poor growing up. Living comfortably before her father disappeared when she was a child. Once she’d moved in with her foster parents, things had been…tight. Not to the point that they couldn’t live their lives, but there were days, weeks, months, that were better than others. 

This gown was a reminder that she wasn’t that girl anymore. That a chop shop in East Berlin had an empty spot where she had once worked and while her love and passion for cars was still very much there, she had to admit, she liked to dress up. She liked this life and she liked it even more now that there weren’t a cacophony of secrets between her and her partners. 

She’d never expected that Waverly would put them together as a team again. While she’d followed Waverly’s orders without question, throwing Illya and Solo into the fire when he’d asked them to, she had done so with a great weight on her heart. Solo was more endearing than she thought he would be. Suave and in control. And Illya…

He was a different story completely. 

Her frustration and hatred for the Russian government, coming in and building that wall, separating Germany, taking control and implementing their complete control – Gaby had never in her life felt so at odds with the world. And she’d sworn off Russians and their agents altogether. Until Illya. Until he’d come and he’d let her wrestle him while she was drunk, until he’d told her that he’d be close by, until he’d thrown his motorcycle and saved them and didn’t leave her side after it had all settled in. 

She’d lost everything and everyone in the span of a week. All she had left now was UNCLE and it was that knowledge that had her content to be here, in this gown, at this ball. Fighting the good fight and really, what else did she have to do? Go back across that wall? 

She’d found a group of women to mix and mingle with. Idly chatting with them about the ball, about Istanbul and how this was her first time visiting and she didn’t know much about the country, let alone the city itself. They were telling her interesting facts and areas to go and check out and the part of her that wasn’t an UNCLE agent was interested in actually going and seeing some of the sights they’d told her about. 

“Camilla, don’t you look marvelous,” the voice had Gaby turning and her eyes settled at first on the woman who’d spoken to one of the ladies next to her. They moved next, to her date. Solo. Looking as dapper as ever. She gave a small smile, looking away as though she were acting coy. They didn’t know each other. At least on this op. 

“Jack Moore,” Solo offered, holding his hand out to Gaby. She smiled, offering her own back to him and when she kissed her fingers, she pretended to blush a little. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?” 

‘Wanda Jordan,” she gave back easily. “You don’t seem to be from around here, Mr. Moore.” They played into the banter, a show to put on for the women surrounding them. 

“Nor do you,” Solo bantered back at her. 

It didn’t take long for Solo’s date to help usher the women away. Gaby stayed near one of the pillars she stood by, Solo standing near to it and when he spoke lowly, she turned to look at him, thinking it would be even more obvious if they pretending to not be talking to each other. 

“Peril?” Solo asked. 

Gaby nodded. “In the back,” she told him. “I haven’t seen him in about fifteen minutes.” It wasn’t worry, just observation. Illya was perfectly capable of handling himself and she knew that he had his surveillance equipment in the back somewhere, hidden from the rest of the staff. He was going to be listening as best he could to Kotil and his guests. “There’s something else.” 

Solo smirked, accepting a drink from one of the servers coming around. Gaby took one as well as Solo’s date came back over, hanging on his arm. Solo smiled at her while the woman seemed to eye Gaby. She nodded her head back. Avan Rehnquist. So Waverly had informed her. 

“You mean the tall blonde at Kotil’s side?” Solo asked. Of course he’d spotted the woman. Gaby’s eyes went to the source of their converation. Farouk Kotil, sitting at one of the tables with a tall blonde woman at his side. She didn’t wear a gown like everyone else. She looked more like a soldier than anything. 

“Yes,” Gaby said into her drink. “A problem?” 

“You needn’t worry.” It was Ava who responded and the two of them glanced at her. “It’s not a date. That is Bruna. Farouk’s newly hired bodyguard. It means he’s scared and paranoid. You’ll have to be on top of your game, dear.”

Gaby gave Solo a look, who neatly winked at her. “When isn’t she?” 

The compliment had Gaby smiling, boosting confidence in ways that only Solo could do. He could talk her into anything. A fake engagement to a Russian agent, for one. Though she’d been playing and toying. But still. It was reassuring to know that Solo thought she could still handle this. 

“Shall we?” Gaby asked, handing Solo her glass. He took it and gave her a grin. She made sure to take a deep breath, then headed over to go introduce herself to Farouk Kotil. 


	7. The Ball Part Two

_**Author's Note** : This didn't turn out exactly how I wanted, but hopefully it's still okay!_

* * *

 

Illya’s having a decidedly difficult time as a server. He’d done trivial work like this before, rinsing and cleaning dishes, arranging food on trays, making sure it was filled on the buffet line. This wasn’t his first rodeo, as the Americans liked to put it. The difficulty of this particular job, in the moment, was entirely on the fault of the head chef. Illya didn’t know his name and he didn’t care to. He’d already rebelled as much as he was going to allow himself to, as much as he could afford. 

He’d covertly spilled wine onto the man’s white jacket and that would be impossible to get out. 

It was a stupid satisfaction and he could recognize it, but it didn’t keep him from indulging in it. Every time the head chef came by with something nasty to say, Illya’s Russian pride could get a fairly soothing stroke by just looking at that stain the chef had yet to see. It helped him keep his chin up. 

As much fun in kitchen politics as Illya was having, he also remembered that he was here for a mission. He’d snuck in his surveillance equipment earlier, set it up in a closet that wasn’t to be used and that he’d stolen the key for. Every now and again, he’d head towards the closet, head inside, and put on the earphones to see if Farouk Kotil was talking about anything interesting. He wasn’t. At all. Dry conversations and fake compliments for those that came to see them. 

Illya was listening now, the door locked behind him and the head chef probably looking for where his server went, but he didn’t care in the moment. It was about time for Gaby to make her move, they were at their approved times. He hadn’t had a chance to go back out and let her know the mission was a go, but he had faith that she would still get the job done even if he wasn’t listening. 

She was good at this. He wasn’t entirely sure of all the training Waverly gave her before he and Solo had shown up at her garage, but he thought part of her success came from natural talent. She had a knack for this job. Rough and tumble, that was her personality but in a way Illya could never be. Smooth when she needed to be. She resembled Solo in those ways and he begrudgingly admitted that in that department, and probably  _only_  that department, Solo was better than Illya. The man was smooth. 

The tracker he’d put on Farouk Kotil’s table picked up all the conversation and Illya straightened his back slightly when he could clearly hear Gaby’s voice. She introduced herself as Wanda Jordan. Not an overly German name, but it was a purposeful thing. Kotil enjoyed the Westernization of his surroundings. He would surely appreciate the name. 

“ _It’s a lovely party_ ,” he heard her say. 

Kotil’s voice came in clearer, closer to the tracker Illya had slipped onto the table. “ _Thank you. Would you care for a seat?”_

A week ago, he wouldn’t have cared sending Gaby in to talk with a mark. He’d done so with people before on missions. It wasn’t a matter of Illya not believing in his ability to handle it if things went wrong. It was never that. It was the feel of Gaby’s hand clutching at his while she was passed out drunk. Even if she didn’t remember it, it had been a long, long time since anyone had done that. Shown that they wanted him to stay. 

Even if she hadn’t meant it, he still didn’t know how to handle it. 

He tried to listen to the rest of their conversation. There’s something about accidents and horses, the cover story exactly what they’d come up with in the down time they’d had before this party. But there was such a racket from the kitchen outside the closet Illya growled slightly and pulled the earphones down. He poked his head out slightly, seeing the coast was clear and closed the door behind him, straightening his jacket like he hadn’t just been crouched in a too small closet for a too tall Russian. 

From around the corner, he could hear the head chef yelling. Turkish. Not a language he understood except for bits and pieces, but nothing substantial for him to be able to know what the man was on about. He rounded the corner himself, standing there and taking in the scene. The head chef was throwing his weight around, like he had since the moment Illya had walked in there. But there was a young man in front of him, small and skinny, probably had never been in a fight in his life and the way he flinched under the tirade had Illya steeling his jaw. 

“What does he yell about?” Illya asked, leaning closer to one of the workers near to him. 

The worker looked up at him, speaking in an Italian accented voice. A long way from home, just like Illya. “The Bourguignon was undercooked.” 

“The…” Illya trailed off, not bothering to repeat the words. That was what had caused such ire? Illya had a temper, but it was usually brought about by insults to his heritage, his family, himself. Fashion, at times when he was arguing with Solo. But food? 

Before Illya could get back to his surveillance, the head chef lifted a hand and backhanded the worker in front of him. Illya’s chin tipped back, the entire kitchen had gone quiet, all eyes on the chef and his abuse. 

Illya knew. He knew without a doubt he should just go back and pay attention to Gaby and Kotil. The most important thing. Don’t blow missions over things that are inconsequential. But there were very few things he liked less than a lack of respect. And for just the briefest of moments, it wasn’t a young Turkish worker standing there in front of a head chef. It was a young Russian blamed for embezzlement standing in front of a Siberian guard. 

This wasn’t Siberia, but the cold in Illya’s blood could damn well make it feel like it. 

The sigh that escaped him would be the only apology he gave to his teammates.

—

Gaby had found confidence in Solo’s words. She approached the table with her chin held high, casual smile on her face. If Solo believed she was capable, even if he were just trying to boost her confidence, it had worked. Farouk Kotil was a good looking man, evident with his riches and his success. He reminded her of Alexander Vinciguerra and even though she had no true love for either men, she did hope that Kotil’s fate would differ. She’d rather see people rot in a cell than carved open on a mountainside like Alexander. 

As she approached the table, Kotil glanced up, his smile becoming something curious as he caught her eyes. Behind him, Bruna, the new bodyguard, stood with her hands folded in front of her. Soldier’s stance squaring her shoulders. Gaby tried not to be intimidated, remembering that not only was Solo somewhere behind her should things get rough, but somewhere, Illya would be listening to the entire conversation. 

“Good evening,” she greeted, speaking English. She didn’t know whether Kotil spoke German or Italian, but English seemed a common language for the man. 

“Good evening,” Kotil responded back, his voice rich like honey and Gaby’s smile widened easily. She could see why he’d been referred to as a Prince Charming. “To whom do I now share a pleasant company with?” 

Gaby held out her hand, which he took easily, bringing her fingers to her lips. “Wanda Jordan,  _Beyefendi._ ” she told him. “I am from Germany, visiting a dear friend of mine. She invited me to your party. Said they were…like no other.” 

Kotil seemed pleased to hear that. “Please,” he greeted her. “I am Farouk Kotil. But you, may call me Farouk.” He held onto her hand and Gaby made no motion of trying to pull it back, though it didn’t pass by her notice that it was something of a forward gesture on his part. Letting her know that he was interested. “And? What do you think of my party?” he asked her, finally letting go of her fingers. 

“It’s a lovely party.” 

“Thank you,” Kotil nodded, obliged. He held his hand out towards a spare chair and Gaby nodded her appreciation back. “Would you care for a seat?” 

She was already sitting as she said, “I would love to.”

Sipping at his drink, Kotil’s eyes never left Gaby’s face and she couldn’t quite tell if the scrutiny was desire, suspicion or a combination of the two. She knew he had only recently had his girlfriend killed. Beverly Dawson. The death of the British agent had been what sparked them to even come here. It was easy to keep that in mind as she now sat in Kotil’s presence. 

“Were you in an accident recently?” Kotil asked, his head tipped back, curiosity still painted on his features. 

Like she had forgotten, Gaby glanced down at her exposed scrapes and bruises on her arm. There was similar on her chin and even more on her legs. They would all hear, superficial at most. But she nodded at that. “A silly one,” she admitted, as though embarrassed. 

“How so?” Kotil asked. 

“It was a riding lesson,” she told him and saw that small perk of his brow. She’d caught his interest certainly. “I’m no good with horses. Much better behind a betting ticket than in a saddle. Have you ever been riding?” 

A smirk played across the man’s face. “I believe I’m much the same,” he said, leaning forward to set his drink down on the table. Gaby lifted a brow. “Though, I’ve taken my skills much farther than a simple betting ticket. I am a breeder, the best in all of Turkey.” 

“Are you?” Gaby asked, trying to sound as interested as she possibly could. All that research was about to come in handy. 

Only, Kotil opened his mouth to continue the conversation, but a loud ruckus from behind them had them both turning to look and see what was causing the noise. A chef, in a white jacket with a wine stain along his back came storming out from one of the doors. He was holding a rag to his head, staunching the flow of blood form some head wound. 

Gaby’s eyes instantly sought out Solo. There was a twinge of worry, but mostly exasperation because she probably already knew what had happened. Someone had sparked the Russian’s ire. She’d meant it when she’d told him he had to learn to control his temper. When she caught sight of Solo, she could only see him roll his eyes upwards slightly before he took on the air again of someone as curious and interested as the rest of the guests. His gaze did travel her way and a slight widening of his eyes was the only sign she needed. He was telling her to try and salvage this. 

“What on Earth,” Kotil said under his breath before he stood and Gaby did as well, her mouth opening to try and catch him. He didn’t allow it. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he tried to move pass her. 

“Of course,” she said, not wanting to seem too eager. 

He paused when he was a short ways away, turning and pointing back at her. She lifted a brow curiously. “I have to attend to this, but…there’s a race tomorrow. One of my horses will be in it. Perhaps, I’ll see you there?” 

Gaby nodded, acting shy and pleased. “That would be wonderful.” 

“Very good,” Kotil agreed and then turned to go try and calm his boisterous chef. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a very first chapter in this multi-chapter story. I'm going to try to keep it as canon to the movie verse as possible, because their dynamic is golden to me. Here's hoping to a sequel, but if not, that's why I'd like to explore the possibilities of Istanbul.


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